Bad Hair Day
by Idrelle Miocovani
Summary: Halesta Lavellan is having a bad hair day. [Gift for @ladylike-foxes, Halie belongs to her.]


**A/N:** This is a gift for the lovely ladylike-foxes. Halesta belongs to her. I hope I did her justice!

Thanks for reading. :)

* * *

Halesta disappears behind a cloud of hair.

She's been fighting it for what feels like hours, but the tangled mess refuses to cooperate. It's already broken a hairbrush and she _knows_ she's lost at least a handful of pins in it. She lets out an exasperated sigh and flips it over her shoulder.

"Something the matter, vhenan?" Solas asks, peering over the large, heavy book. A little light reading, he said, while she gets ready.

 _Light reading, my ass,_ Halesta thinks. _That's not a book, that's a tome._

"Hair," she says as it falls in her face. She puffs out a breath, fluttering the locks that have fallen in front of her eyes.

He raises an eyebrow. "I like your hair."

Halesta twists her hair out of the way, her face emerging once more as she gathers it at the nape of her neck. "Thank you, ma lath, but that doesn't help me get ready for this… _debacle_ that's scheduled to happen in less than an hour."

"Careful," he warns. "I wouldn't let Josephine overhear you calling her carefully orchestrated diplomatic negotiations a debacle."

"It's Orlais, Solas," Halesta sighs. "It's a debacle by nature."

He stands and sets the book aside, setting it down on the low table in front of the hearth. Halesta can almost hear the wood crack beneath the tome's weight. The corners of her lips twitch—she's tempted to tease him about his reading habits—but she knows she can't spare the time. She returns to the mirror above her vanity, twisting her hair again, trying to get it right.

Solas appears behind her in the mirror. He captures her hands with his and removes them from her hair. "You are beautiful, vhenan," he says. "The Orlesians won't care about your hair. Tamed or not, it will never suit them. Go as you are."

Halesta tries not to think about the barrage of remarks she received at the Winter Palace when she return to the ball room splattered with blood and her hair a mess.

"That's easy for you to say," she says. "You don't have any hair."

Solas chuckles and runs a hand over his bald scalp. "That I cannot deny."

"And," Halesta adds, raising a hand, "you _are_ the one who showed up to the Winter Palace wearing a disaster of a hat. I'm sorry, ma lath, but I can't trust your fashion sense. Vivienne and Dorian would murder me."

Solas frowns. "That disaster of a hat, as you call it, is not a hat. It is a helm, worn by the Drasca."

He says it as though he expects her to know who the Drasca are. Or, if she doesn't, that she will ask.

Halesta puts her elbow on her vanity and leans her chin against her palm. "And who were the Drasca?"

His eyes light up. He loves answering questions.

 _Nerd._

"The Drasca," Solas says, his hands returning to her hair and carefully brushing through it, "were an ancient order of warriors from the Anderfels. Legend says that they were hunted mercilessly by the Imperium, but survived. They would eventually lead the Anders rebellion against Orlais."

Halesta blinks. "So… you wore a symbol of rebellion against Orlais into the heart of Orlais?"

Solas pauses. "Yes," he says. "If you'd like to put it that way… Yes. I did."

Halesta's heart swells. She spins around in her chair and throws her arms around him. "You are unbelievable," she says, kissing him soundly.

"Thank you," he says. "Now did you want assistance with your hair or not?"

Halesta presses a flighty kiss against his cheek and settles down in her chair. She sits patiently, her feet dangling, as Solas combs through her hair and slowly braids it back. For a man with no hair, she wonders how he got to be so good at braiding. She closes her eyes, enjoying the feel of her hair being played with, the softness of Solas' voice as he hums an elven melody while he works. All too soon, his hands leave her hair and she immediately misses the magical comfort he created.

Halesta opens her eyes and her jaw drops a little. "How did you…"

"Magic," he says, kisses her forehead.

Her hair is beautifully done. A twisted waterfall of loose braids and curls cascade over her shoulder. It is tamed, yet distinctly her. No Orlesian diplomat or Imperial representative should complain now about the Inquisitor looking uncouth.

Halesta stands and wraps her arms around him. "Thank you, ma lath."

"You are ready for your fight, vhenan," Solas replies, murmuring against her ear. "Go. The Orlesian representatives will have no choice but to listen to what you have to say."

Halesta places a hand against his cheek and kisses him. "That's exactly what I was going for," she says.


End file.
